SONGS 


TO  FAN  THE  FLAMES  OF 
D  I  S  C  O  N  T  E  N^T 

1^ 


rnXfmm  ■  ■■'■■■■■I  i  PUBUSHED  BY  ■"  . . 

INDUSTRIAL  WORKERS  OF  THE  WORLD 

1001  W.  MADISON  ST.  CHICAGO,  ILL.,  U.  S.  A. 


:  PRICE  TEN  CENTS  ; 


THE  PREAMBLE 

OF  THE  INDUSTRIAL  WORKERS  OF  THE  WORLD 


The  working  class  and  the  employing  class  have  nothing 
in  common.  There  can  be  no  peace  so  long  as  hunger  and 
want  are  found  among  millions  of  working  people  and  the 
few,  who  make  up  the  employing  class,  have  all  the  good 
things  of  life. 

Between  these  two  classes  a  struggle  must  go  on  until 
the  workers  of  the  world  organize  as  a  class,  take  posses¬ 
sion  of  the  earth  and  the  machinery  of  production,  and 
abolish  the  wage  system. 

Wfl  find  that  the  centering  of  management  of  the  indus¬ 
tries  into  fewer  and  fewer  hands  makes  the  trade  unions 
unable  to  cope  with  the  ever  growing  power  of  the  employ¬ 
ing  class.  The  trade  unions  foster  a  state  of  affairs  which 
allows  one  set  of  workers  to  be  pitted  against  another  set 
of  workers  in  the  same  industry,  thereby  helping  defeat 
one  another  in  wage  wars.  Moreover,  the  trade  unions  aid 
the  employing  class  to  mislead  the  workers  into  the  be¬ 
lief  that  the  working  class  have  interests  in  common  with 
^heir  employers. 

These  conditions  can  be  changed  and  the  interest  of  the 
working  class  upheld  only  by  an  organization  formed  in 
such  a  way  that  all  its  members  in  any  one  industry,  or 
in  all  industries  if  necessary,  cease  work  whenever  a  strike 
or  lockout  is  on  in  any  department  thereof,  thus  making 
an  injury  to  one  an  injury  to  all. 

Instead  of  the  conservative  motto,  “A  fair  day's  wage 
for  a  fair  day's  work,”  we  must  inscribe  on  our  banner  the 
revolutionary  watchword,  “Abolition  of  the  wage  system.” 

It  is  the  historic  mission  of  the  working  class  to  do  away 
with  capitalism.  The  army  of  production  must  be  organ¬ 
ized,  not  only  for  the  every-day  struggle  with  capitalists, 
but  also  to  carry  on  production  when  capitalism  shall  have 
been  overthrown.  By  organizing  industrially  we  are  form¬ 
ing  the  structure  of  the  new  society  within  the  shell  of 
the  old. 


I.  W.  W.  SONGS 


SONGS  OF  LIFE— and 
“Take  out  the  words,  if  so  must  be, 
But  leave,  oh,  leave  the  melody.” 


EIGHTEENTH  EDITION 


PRICE  TEN  CENTS  :: 


PUBLISHED  BY 

INDUSTRIAL  WORKERS  OF  THE  WORLD 

1001  W.  MADISON  ST.  CHICAGO,  ILL.,  U.  S.  A. 


JOE  HILL 


INDEX 


Page 

All  Hell  Can’t  Stop  Us . 18 

A  Worker’s  Plea  . 58 

Big  Question,  The  . .  24 

Count  Your  Workers  .  49 

Commonwealth  of  Toil  .  57 

Dump  The  Bosses  Off  Your  Back  .  18 

Dollar  Alarm  Clock  .  26 

Don’t  Take  My  Papa  Away  From  Me  .  40 

Everett  County  Jail  . 1 .  43 

Fifty  Thousand  Lumber  Jacks  .  50 

Farewell  Frank  .  56 

Harvest  Land  .  61 

Hold  The  Fort  .  63 

Harvest  War  Song .  12 

International,  The  .  6 

Industrial  Workers  of  the  World  .  31 

I’m  Too  Old  To  Be  A  Scab  .  29 

Industrial  Unionism  Speaks  To  Toilers  of  the  Sea  35 

I  Wanna  Free  Miss  Liberty  .  44 

John  Golden  And  The  Lawrence  Strike  .  15 

Joe  Hill’s  Last  Will  .  53 

Mr.  Block  . 30 

My  Wandering  Boy  . .  42 

May  Day  Song  . , .  46 

Mysteries  of  a  Hobo’s  Life  .  54 

One  Big  Industrial  Union  .  10 

Onward  One  Big  Union  .  48 

Organize  .  59 

Preacher  And  the  Slave,  The  .  36 

Popular  Wobbly  .  37 

Rebel  Girl,  The  .  5 

Red  Flag,  The  .  10 

Remember  1 .  34 

Renunciation  .  39 

Scissor  Bill  .  16 

Solidarity  Forever  . 25 

Tramp,  The  .  20 


Page 


They’ll  Soon  Ring  out  .  47 

There  is  Power  in  a  Union  .  60 

Tie  ’Em  Up .  52 

Up  From  Your  Knees .  19 

We  Will  Sing  One  Song  .  7 

Workers  of  the  World  Awaken  .  8 

Workers  of  the  World  Are  Now  Awakening .  11 

Workers  of  the  World  .  14 

Whadda  You  Want  to  Break  Your  Back  For  the 

Bosses  For  .  22 

White  Slave,  The  .  23 

We  Have  Fed  You  All  For  A  Thousand  Years  ........  28 

Workers’  Marseillaise,  The  .  33 

When  You  Wear  That  Button  .  41 

Workers  Memorial  Song  .  55 

Working  Men  Unite  .  64 


THE  REBEL  GIRL 

Words  and  Music  by  Joe  Hill 
(Copyrighted,  1916) 

There  are  women  of  many  descriptions 
In  this  queer  world,  as  everyone  knows, 

Some  are  living  in  beautiful  mansions. 

And  are  wearing  the  finest  of  clothes. 

There  are  blue  blooded  queens  and  princesses, 

Who  have  charms  made  of  diamonds  and  pearl; 

But  the  only  and  thoroughbred  lady 
Is  the  Rebel  Girl. 

CHORUS 

That’s  the  Rebel  Girl,  that’s  the  Rebel  Girl! 

To  the  working  class  she’s  a  precious  pearl. 

She  brings  courage,  pride  and  joy 

To  the  fighting  Rebel  Boy. 

We’ve  had  girls  before,  but  we  need  sortie  more 

In  the  Industrial  Workers  of  the  World. 

For  it’s  great  to  fight  for  freedom 

With  a  Rebel  Girl. 

Yes,  her  hands  may  be  hardened  from  labor. 

And  her  dress  may  not  be  very  fine; 

But  a  heart  in  her  bosom  is  beating 

That  is  true  to  her  class  and  her  kind. 

And  the  grafters  in  terror  are  trembling 
When  her  spite  and  defiance  she’ll  hurl; 

For  the  only  and  thoroughbred  lady 
Is  the  Rebel  Girl. 


Words  and  Music  of  “The  Rebel  Girl”  may  be  obtained 
in  popular  sheet  form  by  applying  to  I.  W.  W.  Publishing 
Bureau.  Price  25  cents. 


5 


THE  INTERNATIONALE 

By  Eugene  Pettier 
(Translated  by  Charles  H.  Kerr) 

Arise,  ye  prisoners  of  starvation!  ^  ‘ 
Arise,  ye  wretched  of  the  earth. 

For  justice  thunders  condemnation, 

A  better  world's  in  birth. 

No  more  tradition’s  chains  shall'  bind  us 
Arise,  ye  slaves;  no  more  in  thrall! 

The  earth  shall  rise  on  new  foundations, 
We  have  been  naught,  we  shall  be  all. 

REFRAIN 

’Tis  the  final  conflict. 

Let  each  stand  in  his  place. 
The  Industrial  Union 

Shall  be  the  human  race. 

We  want  no  condescending  saviors. 

To  rule  us  from  a  judgment  hall; 

We  workers  ask  not  for  their  favors; 

Let  us  consult  for  all. 

To  make  the  thief  disgorge  his  booty 
To  free  the  spirit  from  its  cell. 

We  must  ourselves  decide  our  duty. 

We  must  decide  and  do  it  well. 

Behold  them  seated  in  their  glory. 

The  kings  of  mine  and  rail  and  soil! 

What  have  you  read  in  all  their  story. 
But  how  they  plundered  toil? 

Fruits  of  the  workers’  toil  are  buried 
In  the  strong  coffers  of  a  few;  RBC 

In  working  for  their  restitution  “JilcU 
The  men  will  only  ask  their  due. 

6 


WE  WILL  SING  ONE  SONG 

By  Joe  Hill 

(Air:  “My  Old  Kentucky  Home”) 

We  will  sing  one  song  of  the  meek  and  humble  slave, 
The  homy-handed  son  of  the  toil, 

He’s  toiling  hard  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 

But  his  master  reaps  the  profits  from  his  toil. 

Then  we’ll  sing  one  song  of  the  greedy  master  class. 
They’re  vagrants  in  broadcloth,  indeed, 

They  live  by  robbing  the  ever-toiling  mass, 

Human  blood  they  spill  to  satisfy  their  greed. 

CHORUS: 

Organize!  Oh,  toilers  come  organize  your  might; 

Then  we’ll  sing  one  song  of  the  worker’s  commonwealth. 

Full  of  beauty,  full  of  love  and  health. 

We  will  sing  one  song  of  the  politician  sly, 

He’s  talking  of  changing  the  laws; 

Election  day  all  the  drinks  and  smokes  he’ll  buy. 

While  we  make  the  welkin  ring  with  our  applause 

Then  we’ll  sing  one  song  of  the  girl  below  the  line, 

She’s  scorned  and  despised  everywhere. 

While  in  their  mansions  the  “keepers”  wine  and  dine 
From  the  profits  that  immoral  traffic  bear. 

We  will  sing  one  song  of  the  preacher,  fat  and  sleek, 

He  tells  you  of  homes  in  the  sky. 

He  says,  “Be  generous,  be  lowly  and  be  meek. 

If  yon  don’t  you’ll  sure  get  roasted  when  you  die.” 

Then  we’ll  ^ing  one  song  of  the  poor  and  ragged  tramp. 
He  carries  his  home  on  his  back; 

Too  old  to  work,  he’s  not  wanted  ’round  the  camp. 

So  he  wanders  without  aim  along  the  track. 


7 


We  will  sing  one  song  of  the  children  in  the  mills, 
They’re  taken  from  playgrounds  and  schools, 

In  tender  years  made  to  go  the  pace  that  kills. 

In  the  sweatshops,  ’mong  the  looms  and  the  spools. 
Then  we’ll  sing  one  song  of  the  One  Big  Union  Grand, 
The  hope  of  the  toiler  and  slave. 

Its  coming  fast!  it  is  sweeping  sea  and  land, 

To  the  terror  of  the  grafter  and  the  knave. 


WORKERS  OF  THE  WORLD,  AWAKEN! 
By  Joe  Hill 

Workers  of  the  world,  awaken! 

Break  your  chains,  demand  your  rights. 
All  the  wealth  you  make  is  taken 
By  exploiting  parasites. 

Shall  you  kneel  in  deep  submission 
From  your  cradles  to  your  graves? 

Is  the  height  of  your  ambition 
To  be  good  and  willing  slaves? 

CHORUS 

Arise,  ye  prisoners  of  starvation! 

Fight  for  your  own  emancipation; 

Arise,  ye  slaves  of  every  nation. 

In  One  Union  grand. 

Our  little  ones  for  bread  are  crying. 

And  millions  are  from  hunger  dying; 
The  end  the  means  is  justifying, 

’Tis  the  final  stand. 


8 


If  the  workers  take  a  notion, 

They  can  stop  all  speeding  trains; 

Every  ship  upon  the  ocean 

They  can  tie  with  mighty  chains. 

Every  wheel  in  the  creation, 

Every  mine  and  every  mill. 

Fleets  and  armies  of  the  nation, 

Will  at  their  command  stand  still. 

Join  the  union,  fellow  workers. 

Men  and  women,  side  by  side; 

We  will  crush  the  greedy  shirkers 
Like  a  sweeping,  surging  tide; 

For  united  we  are  standing. 

But  divided  we  will  fall; 

Let  this  be  our  understanding — 

“All  for  one  and  one  for  all.” 

Workers  of  the  world,  awaken! 

Rise  in  all  your  splendid  might; 

Take  the  wealth  that  you  are  making, 
It  belongs  to  you  by  right. 

No  one  will  for  bread  be  crying. 

We’ll  have  freedom,  love  and  health. 

When  the  grand  red  flag  is  flying 
In  the  Workers’  Commonwealth. 


A  shorter  work  day  for  all  employed  workers  would 
put  thousands  of  unemployed  to  work.  If  everybody 
worked  there  would  be  no  poverty. 


9 


ONE  BIG  INDUSTRIAL  UNION 

By  G.  G.  Allen 

(Air:  “Marching  Through  Georgia”) 

Bring  the  good  old  red  book,  boys,  we’ll  sing  another  song. 
Sing  it  to  the  wage  slave  who  has  not  yet  joined  the 
throng 

Of  the  revolution  that  will  sweep  the  world  along, 

To  One  Big  Industrial  Union. 

CHORUS: 

Hooray!  Hooray!  The  truth  will  make  you  free. 

Hooray!  Hooray!  When  will  you  workers  see? 

The  only  way  you’ll  gain  your  economic  liberty. 

Is  One  Big  Industrial  Union. 

You  migratory  workers  of  the  common  labor  clan, 

We  sing  to  you  to  join  and  be  a  fighting  Union  Man; 

You  must  emancipate  yourself,  you  proletarian. 

With  One  Big  Industrial  Union. 


THE  RED  FLAG 

By  James  Connell 

The  worker’s  fiag  is  deepest  red. 

It  shrouded  oft  our  martyred  dead; 

And  ere  their  limbs  grew  stiff  and  cold 
Their  life-blood  dyed  its  every  fold. 

CHORUS 

Then  raise  the  scarlet  standard  high; 
Beneath  its  folds  we’ll  live  and  die, 
Though  cowards  flinch  and  traitors  sneer, 
We’ll,  keep  the  red  flag  flying  here. 


10 


Look  ’round,  the  Frenchman  loves  its  blaze 
The  sturdy  German  chants  its  praise; 

In  Moscow’s  vaults  its  hymns  are  sung, 
Chicago  swells  its  surging  song. 

It  waved  above  our  infant  might 
When  all  ahead  seemed  dark  as  night; 

It  witnessed  many  a  deed  and  vow. 

We  will  not  change  its  color  now. 

It  suits  today  the  meek  and  base. 

Whose  minds  are  fixed  on  pelf  and  place; 
To  cringe  beneath  the  rich  man’s  frown. 
And  haul  that  sacred  emblem  down. 

With  heads  uncovered,  swear  we  all. 

To  bear  it  onward  till  we  fall; 

Come  dungeons  dark,  or  gallows  grim. 

This  song  shall  be  our  parting  hymn. 


THE  WORKERS  OF  THE  WORLD  ARE  NOW 
AWAKING 

By  Richard  Brazier 

(Tune:  “The  Shade  of  the  Old  Apple  Tree”) 

The  Workers  of  the  World  are  now  awaking; 

The  earth  is  shaking  with  their  mighty  tread. 

The  master  class  in  great  fear  now  are  quaking. 
The  sword  of  Damocles  hangs  o’er  their  head. 
The  toilers  in  one  union  are  uniting. 

To  overthrow  their  cruel  master’s  reign. 

In  One  Big  Union  now  they  all  are  fighting. 

The  product  of  their  labor  to  retain. 


11 


CHORUS 

It’s  a  union  for  true  Liberty 
It’s  a  union  for  you  and  for  me; 

It’s  the  workers  own  choice, 

It’s  for  girls  and  for  boys, 
ho  want  freedom  from  wage  slavery; 

And  we  march  with  a  Red  Flag  ahead, 

’Cause  the  blood  of  all  nations  is  red — 

Come  on  and  join  in  the  fray. 

Come  on  and  join  us  today. 

We  are  fighting  for  Freedom  and  Bread. 

The  master’s  class  in  fear  have  kept  us  shaking. 

For  long  in  bondage  they  held  us  fast; 

But  the  fight  the  Industrial  Workers  are  now  making 
Will  make  our  chains  a  relic  of  the  past. 

Industrial  unionism  now  is  calling. 

The  toilers  of  the  world  they  hear  its  cry; 

In  line  with  the  Industrial  Workers  they  are  falling, 

By  their  principles  to  stand  or  fall  and  die. 


HARVEST  WAR  SONG 

By  Pat  Brennan 
(Tune:  “Tipperary”) 

We  are  coming  home,  John  Farmer;  We  are  coming  back 
to  stay. 

For  nigh  on  fifty  years  or  more,  we’ve  gathered  up  your 
hay. 

We  have  slept  out  in  your  hayfields,  we  have  heard  your 
morning  shout; 

We’ve  heard  you  wondering  where  in  hell’s  them  pesky 
go-abouts? 


12 


CHORUS: 

It’s  a  long  way,  now  understand  me;  it’s  a  long  way  to 
town; 

It’s  a  long  way  across  the  prairie,  and  to  hell  with 
Farmer  John. 

Here  goes  for  better  wages,  and  the  hours  must  come 
down; 

For  we’re  out  for  a  winter’s  stake  this  summer,  and  we 
want  no  scabs  around. 

You’ve  paid  the  going  wages,  that’s  what  kept  us  on  the 
bum. 

You  say  you’ve  done  your  duty,  you  chin- whiskered  son 
of  a  gun. 

We  have  sent  your  kids  to  college,  but  still  you  rave 
and  shout. 

And  call  us  tramps  and  hoboes,  and  pesky  go-abouts. 

But  now  the  long  wintry  breezes  are  a-shaking  our  poor 
frames, 

And  the  long  drawn  days  of  hunger  try  to  drive  us  hoes 
insane. 

It  is  driving  us  to  action — ^we  are  organized  today; 

Us  pesky  tramps  and  hoboes  are  coming  back  to  stay. 


YOU  cannot  be  free  while  your  CLASS  is  enslaved 
Join  the  I.  W.  W.  and  find  YOUR  place  in  the  final  batiiv 
for  the  emancipation  of  the  world’s  worker*. 


.18 


WORKERS  OF  THE  WORLD 
(Air:  “Lillibulero”) 

By  Connell 

Stand  up,  ye  toilers,  why  crouch  ye  like  cravens?  . 

Why  clutch  an  existence  of  insult  and  want? 

Why  stand  to  be  plucked  by  an  army  of  ravens, 

Or  hoodwink’d  forever  by  twaddle  and  cant? 

Think  of  the  wrongs  ye  bear. 

Think  on  the  rags  ye  wear, 

Think  on  the  insults  endur’d  from  your  birth; 

Toiling  in  snow  and  rain. 

Rearing  up  heaps  of  grain. 

All  for  the  tyrants  who  grind  you  to  earth. 

Your  brains  are  as  keen  as  the  brains  of  your  masters. 
In  swiftness  and  strength  ye  surpass  them  by  far; 
Ye’ve  brave  hearts  to  teach  you  to  laugh  at  disasters, 

Ye  vastly  outnumber  your  tyrants  in  war. 

Why,  then,  like  cowards  stand. 

Using  not  brain  or  hand. 

Thankful  like  dogs  when  they  throw  you  a  bone? 

What  right  have  they  to  take 
Things  thay  ye  toil  to  make? 

Know  ye  not,  workers,  that  all  is  your  own? 

Rise  in  your  might,  brothers,  bear  it  no  longer; 

Assemble  in  masses  throughout  the  whole  land; 

Show  these  incapables  who  are  the  stronger 
When  workers  and  idlers  confronted  shall  stand. 

Thro’  Castle,  Court  and  Hall, 

Over  their  acres  all. 

Onwards  we’ll  press  like  waves  of  the  sea. 

Claiming  the  wealth  we’ve  made. 

Ending  the  spoiler’s  trade; 

Labor  ;'»hal]  triumph  and  mankind  be  free. 

14 


JOHN  GOLDEN  AND  THE  LAWRENCE  STRIKE 

By  Joe  Hill 

(Tune:  “A  Little  Talk  with  Jesus”) 

In  Lawrence,  when  the  starving  masses  struck  for  more 
to  eat 

And  wooden-headed  Wood  he  tried  the  strikers  to  defeat 
To  Sammy  Gompers  wrote  and  asked  him  what  he 
thought, 

And  this  is  just  the  answer  that  the  mailman  brought: 

CHORUS 

A  little  talk  with  Golden 
Makes  it  right,  all  right; 

He’ll  settle  any  strike. 

If  there’s  coin  in  sight; 

Just  take  him  up  to  dine 
And  everything  is  fine — 

A  little  talk  with  Golden 
Makes  it  right,  all  right. 

The  preachers,  cops  and  money-kings  were  working  hand 
in  hand, 

The  boys  in  blue,  with  stars  and  stripes  were  sent  by 
Uncle  Sam ; 

Still  things  were  looking  blue,  ’cause  every  striker  knew 
That  weaving  cloth  with  bayonets  is  hard  to  do. 

John  Golden  had  with  Mr.  Wood  a  private  interview. 
He  told  him  how  to  bust  up  the  “I  double  double  U.” 

He  came  out  in  a  while  and  wore  the  Golden  smile. 

He  said:  “I’ve  got  all  labor  leaders  skinned  a  mile.” 


15 


John  Golden  pulled  a  bogus  strike  with  all  his  “pinks  and 
stools.” 

He  thought  the  rest  would  follow  like  a  bunch  of  crazy 
fools. 

But  to  his  great  surprise  the  “foreigners”  were  wise, 

In  one  big  solid  union  they  were  organized. 

CHORUS  OF  THE  LAST  VERSE 
That’s  one  time  Golden  did  not 
Make  it  right,  all  right; 

In  spite  of  all  his  schemes 
The  strikers  won  the  fight. 

When  all  the  workers  stand 
United  hand  in  hand,  _ 

The  world  with  all  its  wealth 
Will  be  at  their  command. 

SCISSOR  BILL 
By  Joe  Hill 

(Tune:  “Steamboat  Bill”) 

You  may  ramble  ’round  the  country  anywhere  you  will. 
You’ll  always  run  across  the  same  old  Scissor  Bill. 

He’s  found  upon  the  desert,  he  is  on  the  hill. 

He’s  found  in  every  mining  camp  and  lumber  mill. 

He  looks  just  like  a  human,  he  can  eat  and  walk. 

But  you  will  find  he  isn’t,  when  he  starts  to  talk. 

He’ll  say,  “This  is  my  country,”  with  an  honest  face. 
While  all  the  cops  they  chase  him  out  of  every  place 

CHORUS: 

Scissor  Bill,  he  is  a  little  dippy. 

Scissor  Bill,  he  has  a  funny  face. 

Scissor  Bill  should  drown  in  Mississippi, 

He  is  the  missing  link  that  Darwin  tried  to  trace. 

16 


And  Scissor  Bill,  he  couldn’t  live  without  the  booze, 

He  sits  around  all  day  and  spits  tobacco  juice. 

He  takes  a  deck  of  cards  and  tries  to  beat  the  Chink! 
Yes,  Bill  would  be  a  smart  guy  if  he  only  could  think. 
And  Scissor  Bill,  he  says:  “This  country  must  be  freed 
From  Niggers,  Japs  and  Dutchmen  and  the  gol  durn 
Swede.” 

He  says  that  every  cop  would  be  a  native  son 
If  it  wasn’t  for  the  Irishman,  the  sonna  fur  gun. 

Scissor  Bill,  the  “foreigners”  is  cussin; 

Scissor  Bill,  he  says:  “I  hate  a  Coon”; 

Scissor  Bill  is  down  on  everybody 

The  Hottentots,  the  bushmen  and  the  man  in  the  moon. 

Don’t  try  to  talk  your  union  dope  to  Scissor  Bill, 

He  says  he  never  organized  and  never  will. 

He  always  will  be  satisfied  until  he’s  dead. 

With  coffee  and  doughnut  and  a  lousy  old  bed. 

And  Bill,  he  says,  he  gets  rewarded  thousand  fold, 

When  he  gets  up  to  Heaven  on  the  streets  of  gold. 

But  I  don’t  care  who  knows  it,  and  right  here  I’ll  tell. 

If  Scissor  Bill  is  goin’  to  Heaven,  I’ll  go  to  Hell. 

Scissor  Bill,  he  wouldn’t  join  the  union, 

Scissor  Bill,  he  says,  “Not  me,  by  Heck!” 

Scissor  Bill  gets  his  reward  in  Heaven, 

Dh!  sure.  He’ll  get  it,  but  he’ll  get  it  in  the  neck. 


For  every  dollar  the  parasite  has  and  didn’t  work  for 
there’s  a  slave  who  worked  for  a  dollar  he  didn’t  got. 


17 


DUMP  THE  BOSSES  OFF  YOUR  BACK 


By  John  Brill 

(Tune:  “Take  It  to  the  Lord  in  Prayer”) 

Are  you  poor,  forlorn  and  hungry? 

Are  there  lots  of  things  you  lack? 

Is  your  life  made  up  of  misery? 

Then  dump  the  bosses  off  your  back. 
Are  your  clothes  all  patched  and  tattered? 

Are  you  living  in  a  shack? 

Would  you  have  your  troubles  scattered? 
Then  dump  the  bosses  off  your  back. 

Are  you  almost  split  asunder? 

Loaded  like  a  long-eared  jack? 

Boob — why  don’t  you  buck  like  thunder? 

And  dump  the  bosses  off  your  back. 

All  the  agonies  you  suffer, 

You  can  end  with  one  good  whack — 
Stiffen  up,  you  orn’ry  duffer — 

And  dump  the  bosses  off  your  back. 


ALL  HELL  CAN’T  STOP  US! 

(Tune:  “Hold  The  Fort”) 

(Written  by  Ralph  H.  Chaplin,  in  Leavenworth  Penit.) 

Now  the  final  battle  rages; 

Tyrants  quake  with  fear. 

Rulers  of  the  New  Dark  Ages 
Know  THEIR  end  is  near. 


18 


CHORUS: 

Scorn  to  take  the  crumbs  thhy  drop  us; 

All  is  ours  by  right! 

Onward,  men!  All  Hell  can’t  stop  us! 
Crush  the  Parasite! 

With  a  world-wide  revolution 
Bring  them  to  your  feet! 

They  of  crime  and  persecution — 

They  must  work  to  eat! 

Tear  the  mask  of  lies  asunder; 

Let  the  truth  be  known; 

With  a  voice  like  angry  thunder, 

Rise  and  claim  your  own! 

Down  with  Greed  and  Exploitation; 

Tyranny  must  fail! 

Hail  to  Toils’  Emancipation; 

Labor  shall  be  all. 

UP  FROM  YOUR  KNEES 
By  Ralph  H.  Chaplin 

(Air:  “Song  of  a  Thousand  Years”) 

Up  from  your  knees,  ye  cringing  serfmen! 

What  have  ye  gained  by  whines  and  tears? 
Rise!  they  can  never  break  our  spirits 
Though  they  should  try  a  thousand  years. 

CHORUS 

A  thousand  years,  then  speed  the  victory! 

Nothing  can  stop  us  nor  dismay. 

After  the  winter  comes  the  springtime; 
After  the  darkness  comes  the  day. 

19 


Break  ye  your  chains ;  strike  off  your  fetters ; 

Beat  them  to  swords — the  foe  appears — 
Slaves  of  the  world,  arise  and  crush  him; 

Crush  him  or  serve  a  thousand  years. 

Join  in  the  fight — the  Final  Battle. 

Welcome  the  fray  with  ringing  cheers. 

These  are  the  times  all  freemen  dreamed  of — 
Fought  to  attain  a  thousand  years. 

Be  ye  prepared;  be  not  unworthy, — 

Greater  the  task  when  triumph  nears. 

Master  the  earth,  0  Men  of  Labor, — 

Long  have  ye  learned — a  thousand  years. 

Over  the  hills  the  sun  is  rising. 

Out  of  the  gloom  the  light  appears. 

See!  at  your  feet  the  world  is  waiting, — 
Bought  with  your  blood  thousand  years. 


THE  TRAMP 

By  Joe  Hill 

Tune:  “Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp,  the  Boys  Are  Marching.” 

If  you  all  will  shut  your  trap, 

I  will  tell  you  ’bout  a  chap. 

That  was  broke  and  up  against  it  too,  for  fair; 

He  was  not  the  kind  to  shirk. 

He  was  looking  hard  for  work, 

But  he  heard  the  same  old  story  everywhere. 


20 


CHORUS: 

Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  keep  on  a-tramping. 
Nothing  doing  here  for  you; 

If  I  catch  you  ’round  again. 

You  will  wear  the  ball  and  chain, 

Keep  on  tramping,  that’s  the  best  thing  you  can  do. 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  street, 

’Till  the  shoes  fell  off  his  feet. 

In  a  house  he  spied  a  lady  cooking  stew. 

And  he  said,  “How  do  you  do. 

May  I  ch  p  some  wood  for  you?” 

What  the  lady  told  him  made  him  feel  so  blue. 

’Cross  the  street  a  sign  he  read, 

“Work  for  Jesus”  so  it  said, 

And  he  said,  “Here  is  my  chance.  I’ll  surely  try,” 
And  he  kneeled  upon  the  floor, 

’Till  his  knees  got  rather  sore. 

But  at  eating-time  he  heard  the  preacher  cry — 

Down  the  street  he  met  a  cop. 

And  the  copper  made  him  stop. 

And  he  asked  him,  “When  did  you  blow  into  town? 
Come  with  me  up  to  the  judge,” 

But  the  judge  he  said,  “Oh  fudge. 

Bums  that  have  no  money  needn’t  come  around.” 

Finally  came  that  happy  day 
When  his  life  did  pass  away. 

He  was  sure  he’d  go  to  heaven  when  he  died. 

When  he  reached  the  pearly  gate, 

Santa  Peter,  mean  old  skate. 

Slammed  the  gate  right  in  his  face  and  loudly  cried : 


21 


WHADDA  YA  WANT  TO  BREAK  YOUR  BACK  FOR 
THE  BOSS  FOR? 

(Tune:  “What  Do  You  Want  to  Make  Those  Eyes 

at  Me  For?”) 

Toiling  along  in  light  from  morn  ’til  night, 

Wearin’  away  your  all  for  the  Parasite; 

Workin’  like  a  mule  with  a  number  two, 

Puffin’  like  a  bellow  when  the  day  is  through; 
Steering  a  load  of  gravel  through  the  muck  and  slop 
Packing  a  hod  a  mustard  ’til  you  damn  near  flop; 
Trying  to  bust  a  gut  for  two  twenty-five, 

Pluggin’  like  a  sucker  ’til  five. 

CHORUS: 

So  whadda  ya  want  to  break  your  back  fox  the  boss  for, 
When  it  don’t  mean  life  to  you? 

Do  you  think  it  right  to  struggle  day  and  night. 

And  plow  like  Hell  for  the  Parasite? 

So  whadda  ya  want  to  break  your  back  for  the  boss  for, 
When  there’s  more  in  life  for  you? 

Slow  up  Bill!  that’s  the  way  to  beat  the  System; 

Join  the  Wobbly  Gang,  they’ve  got  the  bosses  guessing 
So  whadda  ya  want  to  break  your  back  for  the  boss  for, 
When  it  don’t  mean  life  to  you? 

Do  it  all  today  and  you’ll  soon  find  out, 

Tomorrow  there’ll  be  nothing  but  to  hang  about. 
Looking  at  the  “job  sign,”  wondering  why.  you  rave. 
With  a  wrinkle  on  your  belly  like  an  ocean  wave; 
Doughnuts  then  begin  to  hang  a  little  high. 

You’re  pinched  by  the  Bull  for  a  “German  spy”; 
You’re  nothing  but  a  bum,  says  the  Judge  with  a  smile, 
Thirty  days  on  the  Rock  pile. 


22 


THE  WHITE  SLAVE 


By  Joe  Hill 

•(Air:  “Meet  Me  Tonight  in  Dreamland”) 

One  little  girl,  fair  as  a  pearl, 

Worked  every  day  in  a  laundry; 

All  that  she  made  for  food  she  paid. 

So  she  slept  on  a  park  bench  so  soundly; 

An  old  procuress  spied  here  there, 

She  came  and  whispered  in  her  ear: 

CHORUS 

Come  with  me  now,  my  girly. 

Don’t  sleep  out  in  the  cold; 

Your  face  and  tresses  curly 
Will  bring  you  fame  and  gold. 

Automobiles  to  ride  in,  diamonds  and  silk  to  wear, 
You’ll  be  a  star  bright,  down  in  the  red  light. 
You’ll  make  your  fortune  there. 

Same  little  girl,  no  more  a  pearl. 

Walks  all  alone  ’long  the  river. 

Five  years  have  flown,  her  health  is  gone. 

She  would  look  at  the  water  and  shiver. 

Whene’er  she’d  stop  to  rest  and  sleep. 

She’d  hear  a  voice  call  from  the  deep: 

Girls  in  this  way,  fall  every  day, 

And  have  been  falling  for  ages. 

Who  is  to  blame?  You  know  his  name, 

It’s  the  boss  that  pays  starvation  wages. 

A  homeless  girl  can  always  hear 
Temptations  calling  everywhere. 


23 


THE  BIG  QUESTION 
(Air:  “America”) 

by  T-B-S. 

My  Job — ^now  is  no  more 

The  boss  has  slam’d  the  door; 
What  shall  I  do? 

Seem’s  like  my  end  is  near, 

My  guts  feel  awful  queer — 

Where  do  we  go  from  here? 

— This  is  up  to  you. 

No,  I've  not  lost  a  leg,' 

— Why  must  I  starve  and  beg? 
What  Shall  I  Do? 

Where  can  the  answer  lurk? 
Why  am  I  out  of  work, 

Gazing  on  all  this  murk? 

This  is  up  to  you. 

I  can  not  stand  alone, 

Masters  have  laid  me  prone; 

What  Shall  I  Do? 

Why  can't  we  hand  in  hand. 
Reclaim  our  right  to  stand, 

Unhorse  the  sleek  brigand? 

This  is  up  to  you. 

Dedicated  to  the  Open  Shop  drive  1921. 


The  workers  can  never  be  free  until  they  blow  the 
whistle  for  the  parasites  to  go  to  work. 


24 


SOLIDARITY  FOREVER! 

By  Ralph  H.  Chaplin 

(Tune:  “John  Brown’s  Body”) 

When  the  Union’s  inspiration  through  the  worker’s  blood 
shall  run, 

There  can  be  no  power  greater  anywhere  beneath  the  sun. 

Yet  what  force  on  earth  is  weaker  than  the  feeble 
strength  of  one? 

But  the  Union  makes  us  strong. 

CHORUS: 

Solidarity  forever! 

Solidarity  forever! 

Solidarity  forever! 

But  the  Union  makes  us  strong. 

Is  there  aught  we  hold  in  common  with  the  greedy  para¬ 
site 

Who  would  lash  us  into  serfdom  and  would  crush  us  with 
his  might. 

Is  there  anything  left  for  us  but  to  organize  and  fight? 

For  the  Union  makes  us  strong. 

It  is  we  who  plowed  the  prairies;  built  the  cities  where 
they  trade. 

Dug  the  mines  and  built  the  workshops;  endless  miles  of 
railroad  laid. 

Now  we  stand,  outcast  and  starving,  ’mid  the  wonders  we 
have  made; 

But  the  Union  makes  us  strong. 

All  the  world  that’s  owned  by  idle  drones,  is  ours  and  ours 
alone. 

We  have  laid  the  wide  foundations;  built  it  skywards, 
stone  by  stone. 


25 


It  is  ours,  not  to  slave  in,  but  to  master  and  to  own, 

While  the  Union  makes  us  strong. 

They  have  taken  untold  millions  that  they  never  toiled  to 
earn. 

But  without  our  brain  and  muscle  not  a  single  wheel  can 
turn. 

We  can  break  their  haughty  power;  gain  our  freedom, 
when  we  learn 

That  the  Union  makes  us  strong. 

In  our  hands  is  placed  a  power  greater  than  their  hoarded 
gold; 

Greater  than  the  might  of  armies,  magnified  a  thousand 
fold. 

We  can  l-ing  to  birth  the  new  world  from  the  ashes  of 
the  old. 

For  the  Union  makes  us  strong. 


\ 


THE  DOLLAR  ALARM  CLOCK 

By  John  Healy 
(Air:  “Old  Oaken  Bucket”) 

How  dear  to  my  heart  are  those  chimes  in  the  morning. 
That  yank  me  from  bed  with  melodious  thrill; 

How  sweet  is  the  sound  of  the  regular  warning 
That  yells  that  it’s  time  that  I  hike  to  the  mill. 
Without  it  I’d  sleep  till  the  sun  had  arisen 
Be  late  to  the  job  that  my  boss  lets  me  use; 

Get  canned,  perhaps  steal.  Maybe  land  in  a  prison 
If  the  chimes  didn’t  hustle  me  out  of  my  snooze. 


26 


CHORUS: 

The  faithful  alarm  clock 
The  rattling  alarm  clock; 

The  dollar  alarm  clock 
That  rests  on  my  shelf. 

What  a  blessing  it  was  when  the  thing  was  invented 
It  beats  the  slave-driver  who  came  with  his  stick; 

It  rests  on  the  shelf  in  the  shack  that  I  rented 
It  never  gets  hungry;  it  never  gets  sick. 

If  overly  weary  I  take  a  tin  bucket 

And  place  the  alarm  clock  down  into  the  thing, 

When  it  chimes  in  the  morning  it  doubles  the  racket; 

It  would  wake  up  the  dead  when  the  two  of  them  ring. 

Sometimes  the  good  woman  gets  worn  out  and  weary 
And  says  we  are  hauling  too  much  of  a  load, 

I  tell  her  the  journey  would  look  still  more  dreary 
If  the  dollar  alarm  clock  should  fail  to  explode. 

Then  here’s  to  my  booster  that  only  needs  winding. 

And  here’s  to  the  victim  that  just  keeps  alive. 

The  boss  gets  the  money  and  I  do  the  grinding; 

The  clock  starts  the  circus  at  quarter  past  five. 


The  present  is  distinctively  an  industrial  epoch  in  world 
history.  There  can  be  no  democracy  in  a  world  ruled  by 
industrial  despots.  The  I.  W.  W.  stands  for  the  only 
REAL  democracy — Industrial  Democracy. 


One  worker  on  the  job  is  worth  a  dozen  in  the  jungles. 

27 


WE  HAVE  FED  YOU  ALL  FOR  A  THOUSAND  YEARS 

Poem — by  an  Unknown  Proletarian. 

Music — by  Rudolf  von  Liebich,  of  the  General  Re¬ 
cruiting  Union,  Chicago,  and  Composer  of  Music  for  the 
Working  Class. 

We  have  fed  you  all,  for  a  thousand  years 
And  you  hail  us  still  unfed. 

Though  there’s  never  a  dollar  of  all  your  wealth 
But  marks  the  worker’s  dead. 

We  have  yielded  our  best  to  give  you  rest 
And  you  lie  on  crimson  wool. 

Then  if  blood  be  the  price  of  all  your  wealth, 

Good  God!  We  have  paid  in  full. 

There  is  never  a  mine  blown  skyward  now 
But  we’re  buried  alive  for  you. 

There’s  never  a  wreck  drifts  shoreward  now 
But  we  are  tis  ghastly  crew. 

Go  reckon  our  dead  by  the  forges  red 
And  the  factories  where  we  spin. 

If  blood  be  the  price  of  your  cursed  wealth 
Good  God!  we  have  paid  it  in. 

We  have  fed  you  all  for  a  thousand  years — 

For  that  was  our  doom  you  know. 

From  the  days  when  you  chained  us  in  your  fields 
To  the  strike  of  a  week  ago 

You  have  taken  your  lives,  and  our  babies  and  wives 
And  we’re  told  it’s  your  legal  share; 

But  if  blood  be  the  price  of  your  lawful  wealth 
Good  God!  we  have  bought  it  fair. 


28 


TM  TOO  OLD  TO  BE  A  SCAB 

(Air:  Just  Before  The  Battle,  Mother) 

By  T-B-S. 

Good-bye  master,  I  must  leave  you 
Something  tells  me  I  must  go, 

For  you  know  I  can’t  decieve  you 
Going  wage  is  too  darn  low. 

Yes,  you  say  that  you  will  feed  me 
If  I  chop  that  hardwood  cord; 

— Do  not  to  temptation  lead  me, 

I’m  not  toiling  for  my  board. 

Though  my  trials  have  been  sundry, 
I  must  e’er  disdain  to  moan 
And  although  I’m  awful  hungry, 

I  would  leave  “your  work”  alone 
Yes,  I  fear,  I  cannot  tarry — 

And  I  know  just  how  you  feel 
But  you  see,  if  I’m  to  marry 
I  must  earn  a  double  meal. 

If  I  work  for  bread  and  lodging 
While  the  sun  is  high  and  warm; 

It  would  cause  me  sundry  dodging 
Through  the  winter’s  cold  and  storm 
I  must  have  the  all  that’s  in  it — 
In  the  labor  that  I  sell; 

For  you  can  not  tell  what  minute 
It  may  start  to  rain  like  hell. 


29 


One  more  question,  boss,  one  only — 

As  you  count  your  wealth  untold 
Would  you  have  me  save  bologny — 

’Gainst  the  day  when  I  •  am  old. 

Now  we  understand  each  other 
(As  we  play  the  game  of  grab) 

But,  please  do  recall,  “my  brother” 

I’m  too  old  to  be  a  scab. 

MR.  BLOCK 

By  Joe  Hill 

(Air:  “It  Looks  to  Me  Like  a  Big-Time  Tonight”) 

Please  give  me  your  attention.  I’ll  introduce  to  you 

A  man  that  is  a  credit  to  “Our  Red,  White  and  Blue”; 

His  head  is  made  of  lumber,  and  solid  as  a  rock; 

He  is  a  common  worker  and  his  name  is  Mr.  Block. 

And  Block  he  thinks  he  may 

Be  President  some  day. 

CHORUS: 

Oh,  Mr.  Block,  you  were  born  by  mistake, 

You  take  the  cake, 

You  make  me  ache. 

Tie  on  a  rock  to  your  block  and  then  jump  in  the  lake, 

Kindly  do  that  for  Liberty’s  sake. 

Yes,  Mr.  Block  is  lucky;  he  found  a  job,  by  gee! 

The  sharks  got  seven  dollars,  for  job  and  fare  and  fee. 

They  shipped  him  to  a  desert  and  dumped  him  with  his 
truck. 

But  when  he  tried  to  find  his  job,  he  sure  was  out  of  luck. 

He  shouted,  “That’s  too  raw. 

I’ll  fix  them  with  the  law.” 


30 


Block  hiked  back  to  the  city,  but  wasn’t  doing  well. 

He  said,  I’ll  join  the  union— the  great  A.  F.  of  L.” 

He  got  a  job  next  morning,  got  fired  ip  the  night, 

He  said,  “I’ll  see  Sam  Gompers  and  he’ll  fix  that  foreman 
right.” 

Sam  Gompers  said,  “You  see. 

You’ve  got  our  sympathy.” 

Election  day  he  shouted,  “A  Socialist  for  Major!” 

The  “comrade”  got  elected,  he  happy  was  for  fair. 

But  after  the  election  he  got  in  awful  shock. 

A  great  big  socialistic  Bull  did  rap  him  on  the  block. 
And  Comrade  Block  did  sob, 

“I  helped  him  to  his  job.” 

Poor-  Block,  he  died  one  evening,  I’m  very  glad  to  state; 
He  climbed  the  golden  ladder  up  to  the  pearly  gate. 

He  said,  “Oh,  Mr.  Peter,  one  word  I’ll  like  to  tell, 

I’d  like  to  meet  the  Astorbilts  and  John  D.  Rockefell.” 
Old  Pete  said,  “Is  that  so? 

You’ll  meet  them  down  below.” 

THE  INDUSTRIAL  WORKERS  OF  THE  WORLD 

By  Laura  Payne  Emerson. 

(Air:  Wabash  Cannonball) 

I  stood  by  a  city  prison, 

In  the  twilight’s  deepening  gloom, 

Where  men  and  women  languished 
In  a  loathsome,  living  tomb. 

They  were  singing!  And  their  voices 
Seemed  to  weave  a  wreath  of  light. 

As  the  words  came  clear  with  meaning: 
“Workers  of  the  World,  unite!” 


31 


As  it  was  with  Galileo, 

And  all  thinkers  of  the  past, 

So  with  these  Industrial  Workers, 

Tyrants  shackles  hold  them  fast. 

In  the  bastiles  of  the  nations, 

They  are  bludgeoned,  mugged  and  starved, 
While  upon  their  aching  bodies 
Prints  of  whips  and  clubs  are  carved. 

Yet  with  spirits  still  unbroken 
And  with  hope  for  future  years 
They  are  calling  to  their  fellows: 

“Come,  arise!  and  dry  your  tears. 

Wake,  ye  toilers,  get  in  action. 

Break  your  bonds,  exert  your  might — 

You  can  make  this  hell  a  heaven, 

Workers  of  the  World,  unite!” 

Hail!  ye  brave  Industrial  Workers, 
Vanguard  of  the  coming  day, 

When  labor’s  hosts  shall  cease  to  cringe 
And  shall  dash  their  chains  away. 

How  the  masters  dread  you,  hate  you. 

Their  uncompromising  foe; 

For  they  see  in  you  a  menace. 

Threatening  soon  their  overthrow. 


“Yaas,”  said  the  farmer  reflectively  “All  the  I.  W.  W. 
fellers  I’ve  met  seem  to  be  pretty  decent  lads,  but  them 
“alleged  I.  W.  W.’s  must  be  holy  frights.” 


32 


THE  WORKERS’  MARSEILLAISE 

Ye  sons  of  toil,  awake  to  glory! 

F  ’•k,  hark,  what  myriads  bid  you  rise; 
Your  children,  wives  and  grandsires  hoary — 
Behold  their  tears  and  hear  their  cries! 
Behold  their  tears  and  hear  their  cries! 
Shall  hateful  tyrants  mischief  breeding. 
With  hireling  hosts,  a  ruffian  band — 
Affright  and  desolate  the  land, 

While  peace  and  liberty  lie  bleeding? 
CHORUS 

To  arms!  to  arms!  ye  brave! 

Th’  avenging  sword  unsheathe! 

March  on,  march  on,  all  hearts  resolved 
On  Victory  or  Death. 

With  luxury  and  pride  surrounded. 

The  vile,  insatiate  despots  dare. 

Their  thirst  for  gold  and  power  unbounded 
To  mete  and  vend  the  light  and  air. 

To  mete  and  vend  the  light  and  air. 

Like  beasts  of  burden,  would  they  load  us. 
Like  gods  would  bid  their  slaves  adore. 
But  Man  is  Man,  and  who  is  more? 

Then  shall  they  longer  lash  and  goad  us? 

0,  Liberty!  can  man  resign  thee? 

Once  having  felt  thy  generous  flame. 

Can  dungeon’s  bolts  and  bars  confine  thee? 
Our  whips,  they  noble  spirit  tame? 

Our  whips,  they  noble  spirit  tame? 

Too  long  the  world  has  wept  bewailing. 

That  Falsehood’s  dagger  tyrants  wield; 

But  Freedom  is  our  sword  and  shield; 

And  all  their  arts  are  unavailing! 

33 


“REMEMBER” 

(Tune:  “Hold  the  Fort”) 

We  speak  to  you  from  jail  today 
Two  hundred  union  men, 

We’re  here  because  the  bosses’  laws 
Bring  slavery  again. 

CHORUS 

In  Chicago’s  darkened  dungeons 
For  the  0.  B.  U. 

Remember  you’re  outside  for  us 
While  we’re  in  here  for  you. 

We’re  here  from  mine  and  mill  and  rail 
We’re  here  from  oif  the  sea-, 

From  coast  to  coast  we  make  the  boast 
Of  Solidarity. 

We  laugh  and  sing,  we  have  no  fear 
Our  hearts  are  always  light. 

We  know  that  every  Wobblie  true 
Will  carry  on  the  fight. 

We  make  a  pledge — no  tyrant  might  * 

Can  make  us  bend  a  knee. 

Come  on  you  worker,  organize 
And  fight  for  Liberty. 

HARRISON  GEORGE 
Cook  County  Jail,  Oct.  18,  1917. 


An  ounce  of  ORGANIZATION  is  worth  a  ton  of  talk; 
join  the  One  Big  Union  and  help  to  free  yourself  and 
your  class  from  wage  slavery. 


34 


INDUSTRIAL  UNIONISM  SPEAKS  TO  TOILERS 

OF  THE  SEA 

By  Harold  R.  Johnson 
(Air:  Stung  Right) 

“You  men  who  toil  upon  the  ships — 

The  ships  of  every  sea — 

Come  bear  to  me  your  grievances, 

Your  tales  of  misery; 

For  I  am  strong  and  good  and  great, 

The  trusts  must  bow  to  me; 

For  I  shall  take  all  workers  in 
And  bring  them  victory.” 

CHORUS 

Seamen  1  Come  all — join  the  O.  B.  U.! 

Fearless  fighters,  every  one,  and  true! 

For,  when  we  are  all  lined  up,  in  the  industry, 

Labor  will  be  master,  over  every  sea! 

“You’ve  weathered  storms  upon  the  deck, 

O,  Toilers  of  the  Sea; 

You’ve  fallen  in  the  fire-holes 
In  the  days  that  used  to  be. 

But  now  the  times  must  change  about,  ? 

A  New  Day  must  appear 

When  all  you  Toilers  of  the  Sea, 

Begin  to  see  and  hear.”  ]  ] 


35 


“I  speak  to  you,  O  workingmen, 

O,  Toilers  of  the  Sea; 

Come  organize  one  union  great 
The  shipping  industry. 

When  you  are  thusly  organized, 
With  others  like  your  own, 

The  One  Big  Union  of  the  World 
Shall  rule  the  earth,  ALONE!” 


THE  PREACHER  AND  THE  SLAVE 

By  Joe  Hill 

(Tune:  “Sweet  Bye  and  Bye”) 

Long-haired  preachers  come  out  every  night. 
Try  to  tell  you  what’s  wrong  and  what’s  right; 
But  when  asked  how  ’bout  something  to  eat 
They  will  answer  with  voices  so  sweet: 

CHORUS 

You  will  eat,  bye  and  bye. 

In  that  glorious  land  above  the  sky; 
Work  and  pray,  live  on  hay. 

You’ll  get  pie  in  the  sky  when  you  die.. 

And  the  starvation  army  they  play. 

And  they  sing  and  they  clap  and  they  pray. 
Till  they  get  all  your  coin  on  the  drum. 

Then  they’ll  tell  you  when  you’re  on  the  bum: 

Holy  Rollers  and  jumpers  come  out. 

And  they  holler,  they  jump  and  they  shout. 
“Give  your  money  to  Jesus,”  they  say, 

“He  will  cure  all  diseases  today.” 


If  you  fight  hard  for  children  and  wife — 

Try  to  get  something  good  in  this  life — 

You’re  a  sinner  and  bad  man,  they  tell, 

When  you  die  you  will  sure  go  to  hell. 

Workingmen  of  all  countries,  unite. 

Side  by  side  we  for  freedom  will  fight: 

When  the  world  and  its  wealth  we  have  gained 
To  the  grafters  we’ll  sing  this  refrain: 

Last  CHORUS 
You  will  eat,  bye  and  bye. 

When  you’ve  learned  how  to  cook  and  to  fry 
Chop  some  wood,  ’twill  do  you  good. 

And  you’ll  eat  in  the  sweet  bye  and  bye. 


“THE  POPULAR  WOBBLY” 

(Air:  They  go  wild  simply  wild  over  me) 

'  By  T-Bone  Slim 

I’m  as  mild  manner’d  man  as  can  be 

And  I’ve  never  done  them  harm  that  I  can  see. 

Still  on  me  they  put  a  ban  and  they  threw  me  in 
the  can, 

They  go  wild,  simply  wild  over  me. 

They  accuse  me  of  ras — cal — i — ty 
But  I  can’t  see  why  they  always  pick  on  me, 
j  I’m  as  gentle  as  a  lamb  but  they  take  me  for  a  ram, 

I  They  go  wild,  simply  wild  over  me. 


Oh  the  “bull”  he  went  wild  over  me 

And  he  held  his  gun  where  everyone  could  see, 

He  was  breathing  rather  hard  when  he  saw  my  union 
card — 

He  went  wild,  simply  wild  over  me. 

Then  the  judge  he  went  wild  over  me 
And  I  plainly  saw  we  never  would  agree, 

So  I  let  the  man  obey  what  his  con  science  had  to  say. 
He  went  wild,  simply  wild  over  me. 

Oh  the  jailor  went  wild  over,  me 

Ancf  he  locked  me  up  and  threw  away  the  key 

It  seems  to  be  the  rage  so  they  keep  me  in  a  cage, 

They  go  wild,  simply  wild  over  me. 

They  go  wild,  simply  wild  over  me  me, 

I’m  refering  to  the  bed-bug  and  the  flea. 

They  disturb  my  slumber  deep  and  I  murmur  in  my 
sleep 

They  go  wild,  simply  wild  over  me. 

Even  God  he  went  wild  over  me. 

This  I  found  out  when  I  knelt  upon  my  knee. 

Did  he  hear  my  humble  yell?  No,  he  told  me  “go 
to  hell,” 

He  went  wild,  simply  wild  over  me. 

Will  the  roses  grow  wild  over  me 
When  I’m  gone  to  the  land  that  is  to  be? 

When  my  soul  and  body  part  in  the  stillness  of  my 
heart — 

Will  the  roses  grow  over  me? 


38 


“RENUNCIATION” 

(Air:  Auld  Lang  Syne) 

By  Joachim  Rancher 

When  hungry  millions  are  unfed 
And  little  orphans  weep, 

I  cannot  eat  in  peace  my  bread, 

Nor  sing  my  grief  to  sleep. 

When  thoughts  arising  from  the  heart 
Are  hampered  in  their  flight, 

I  cannot  sit  and-  muse  apart  x 
Upon  a  dreamy  height. 

Ill 

When  craven  lies  oft  seek  to  blind 
The  eyes  of  blazing  Truth, 

I  cannot  turn  my  maddened  mind 
i  To  songs  of  love  and  youth, 

Nor  can  I  sing  in  lyric  strains 
Of  private,  little  woes, 

When  Greed  is  reaping  golden  gains 
From  bloody  seeds  it  sows. 

“For  my  part,  I  sympathize  with  them.  While  they  are 
threatened  and  imprisoned  I  am  manacled.  If  they  are 
denied  a  living  wage,  I,  too,  am  defrauded.  While  they 
are  industrial  slaves  I  cannot  be  free.  My  hunger  is  not 
satisfied  while  they  are  hindered  and  neglected.  When 
they  are  flung  out  on  a  desert  under  a  scorching  sun,  I 
too,  burn,  and  my  soul  is  athirst.  When  one  of  them  is 
dragged  from  his  bed  and  hung  to  a  railroad  trestle,  a 
great  horror  of  darkness  falls  upon  my  spirit,  and  from 
the  depths  of  my  heart  I  cry  out  against  those  who  per- 
!  secute  the  weak  and  unfriended.” — Helen  Keller. 

39 


DON’T  TAKE  MY  PAPA  AWAY  FROM  ME 

Words  and  Music  By  Joe  Hill 
(Written  just  before  his  execution) 

A  little  girl  with  her  father  stayed,  in  a  cabin  across  the 
sea, 

Her  mother  dear  in  the  cold  grave  lay;  with  her  father 
she’d  always  be — 

But  then  one  day  the  great  war  broke  out  and  the  father 
was  told  to  go; 

The  little  girl  pleaded — her  father  she  needed. 

She  begged,  cried  and  pleaded  so; 

CHORUS: 

Don’t  take  my  papa  away  from  me,  don’t  leave  me  there 
all  alone. 

He  has  cared  for  me  so  tenderly,  ever  since  mother  was 
gone. 

Nobody  ever  like  him  can  be,  no  one  can  so  with  me  play. 

Don’t  take  my  papa  away  from  me;  please  don’t  take 
papa  away. 

Her  tender  pleadings  were  all  in  vain,  and  her  father 
went  to  the  war. 

He’ll  never  kiss  her  good  night  again,  for  he  fell  ‘mid  the 
cannons’  roar. 

Greater  soldier  was  never  bom,  but  his  brave  heart  was 
pierced  one  day; 

And  as  he  was  dying,  he  heard  some  one  crying, 

A  girl’s  voice  far  away: 


40 


WHEN  YOU  WEAR  THAT  BUTTON 

(Tune:  “When  You  Wore  a  Tulip”) 

By  Richard  Brazier 

I  met  him  in  Dakota  when  the  harvesting  was  o’er, 

A  “Wob”  he  was,  I  saw  by  the  button  that  he  wore. 

He  was  talking  to  a  bunch  of  slaves  in  the  jungles  near 
the  tracks; 

He  said,  “You  guys  whose  homes  are  on  your  backs; 

Why  don’t  you  stick  together  with  the  “Wobblies”  in  one 
band 

And  fight  to  change  conditions  for  the  workers  in  this 
land. 

CHORUS: 

When  you  wear  that  button,  the  “Wobblies”  red  button 
And  carry  their  red,  fed  card. 

No  need  to  hike,  boys,  along  these  old  pikes,  boys 
Every  “Wobbly”  will  be  your  pard. 

The  boss  will  be  leery,  the  “stiffs”  will  be  cheery 
When  we  hit  John  Farmer  hard. 

They’ll  all  be  afrighted,  when  we  stand  united 
And  carry  that  Red,  Red  Card. 

The  “stiffs”  all  seemed  delighted,  when  they  heard  him 
talk  that  way. 

They  said,  “We  need  more  pay,  and  a  shorter  working 
day.” 

The  “Wobbly”,  said  “You’ll  get  thes  things  without  the 
slightest  doubt 

If  you’ll  organize  to  knock  the  bosses  out. 

If  you’ll  join  the  One  Big  Union,  and  wear  their  badge  of 
liberty 

You’ll  strike  that  blow  all  slaves  must  strike  if  they  would 
be  free. 


41 


MY  WANDERING  BOY 


Where  is  my  wondering  boy  tonight? 

The  boy  of  his  mother’s  pride 

He’s  counting  the  ties  with  his  bed  on  his  back, 

Or  else  he  is  bumming  a  ride. 

CHORUS 

Oh,  where  is  my  boy  tonight? 

Oh,  where  is  my  boy  tonight? 

He’s  on  the  head  end  of  an  overland  train — 
That’s  where  your  boy  is  tonight. 

II 

His  heart  may  be  pure  as  the  morning  dew, 
But  his  clothes  are  a  sight  to  see. 

He’s  pulled  for  a  vag,  his  excuse  won’t  do. 
‘‘Thirty  days,”  says  the  judge,  you  see. 

Oh,  where  is  my  boy  tonight? 

Oh,  where  is  my  boy  tonight? 

The  chilly  wind  blows,  to  the  lock-up  he  goes. 
That’s  where  your  boy  is  tonight. 

III 

“I  was  looking  for  work,  oh  judge,”  he  said 
Says  the  judge,  “I  have  heard  that  before.” 

So  to  join  the  chain  gang  far  off — ^he  is  led 
To  hammer  the  rocks  some  more. 

Oh,  where  is  my  boy  tonight? 

Oh,  where  is  my  boy  tonight? 

To  strike  many  blows  for  the  county  he  goes. 
That’s  where  your  boy  is  tonight. 


42 


IV 


Don’t  search  for  your  wandering  boy  tonight, 
Let  him  play  the  old  game  if  he  will — 

A  worker,  or  bum,  he’ll  ne’er  be  right, 

So  long  he’s  a  wage  slave  still. 

Oh  where  is  my  boy  tonight? 

His  money  is  “out  of  sight.” 

Wherever  he  “blows”,  up  against  he  goes, 
Here’s  luck! — to  your  boy  tonight. 


THE  EVERETT  COUNTY  JAIL 

(Tune:  “Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp,  the  Boys  are  Marching”) 

By  Wm.  Whalen 

In  the  prison  cell  we  sit 
Are  we  broken  hearted — nit. 

We’re  as  happy  and  as  cheerful  as  can  be, 

For  we  know  that  every  wob 
Will  be  busy  on  the  job. 

Till  they  swing  the  prison  doors  and  set  us  free. 

CHORUS 

Are  you  busy  fellow  workers 
Are  your  shoulders  to  the  wheel? 

Get  together  for  the  cause 

And  some  day  you’ll  make  the  laws. 

It's  the  only  way  to  make  the  masters  squeal. 


43 


Though  the  living  is  not  grand, 

Most^ »  mush  and  coffee  and, 

It’s  as  good  as  we  expected  when  we  came. 

It’s  the  way  they  treat  the  slave 
In  this  free  land  of  the  brave. 

There  is  no  one  but  the  working  class  to  blame. 

When  McRae,  and  Veith,  and  Black 

To  the  Lumberyards  go  back 

May  they  travel  empty  handed  as  they  came. 

May  they  turn  in  their  report 
That  the  wobs  still  hold  the  fort, 

That  a  rebel  is  an  awful  thing  to  tame. 

When  the  65  per  cent 
That  they  call  the  working  gent 
Organizes  in  a  Union  of  its  class 
We  will  then  get  what  we’re  worth 
That  will  be  the  blooming  earth. 

Organize  and  help  to  bring  the  thing  to  pass. 


I  WANNA  FREE  MISS  LIBERTY 

(Air:  Sunny  Tennessee) 

By  T-B-S. 

While  the  moon  was  softly  shining 
On  my  cot,  as  I  lay  pining, 

Thinking  of  the  day — long  passed  away; 
Came  a  drowsy  feeling  o’er  me — 

And  Joe  Hill  stood  there  before  me — 

I  seem’d  to  hear  this  joyous  fighter  say: 


44 


CHORUS 


I  came  to  free  Miss  Liberty,  from  the  bonds  of  slavery; 

From  mock  Democracy;  from  inequality; 

I  want  to  feel  no  Iron  Heel  shall  disgrace  our  peaceful 
shore; 

That  all  the  world  may  do  away  with  war — 

I  love  to  dream  the  old,  old  dream,  that  tomorrow  I 
will  find 

Men  of  a  kindred  mind — who  love  their  fellow  kind. 
I  long  to  make  this  plea,  say  not  that  it  cannot  be, 
I  want  to  see  the  whole  world  free  from  the  chains 
of  slavery. 

II 

Let  us  then  be  up  and  doing — 

Greater  Times  and  things  are  brewing 
Oh,  Organize! — The  one  big  union  way 
“Workers  of  the  world  awaken.” 

“All  the  wealth  you  make  is  taken.” 

“Break  your  chains.”  I  hear  the  spirit  say: 

III 

Tighter  are  the  class  lines  drawing — 

Hunger  at  our  vitals  gnawing — 

My  reason  sways  and  I  long  to  pray? 

Rises  then  again  before  us 
Spectre’s  of  a  Martyred  chorus — 

I  seem  to  hear  these  sterling  fighters  say: 
CHORUS 


Industrial  Unionism  is  the  royal  road  to  Industrial 
Freedom. 


45 


MAY  DAY  SONG 

Music  by  Rudolf  von  Liebich 
Words  by  Ralph  Chaplin 

0,  Labor  Day,  O,  First  of  May, 

Welcome  and  honored  on  land  and  on  sea. 
Winter  so  drear  must  disappear,  i 

Fair  days  are  coming  for  you  aud  for  me. 

We,  of  the  old  world,  building  the  New, 

Ours  is  the  will  and  the  power  to  do; 

Then  let  us  sing,  hail  to  the  Spring — 

Hail  to  the  Day  we  can  strike  to  be  free ! 

Banner  so  red,  high  overhead. 

Hated  and  feared  by  the  powers  that  be! 

In  every  land  firmly  we  stand; 

Men  of  all  nations  who  labor  are  we. 

Under  one  banner,  standing  as  one. 

Claiming  the  earth  and  our  place  in  the  sun. 

Then  let  us  sing,  hail  to  the  Spring — 

Hail  to  the  Day  we  can  strike  to  be  free! 

O,  Labor  Day,  0,  First  of  May, 

Warm  with  the  gleam  of  the  bright  days  to  be! 
Join  in  the  throng,  fearless  and  strong — 

One  mighty  Union  of  world  industry. 

Shoulder  to  shoulder,  each  in  his  place. 

Ours  is  the  hope  of  the  whole  human  race. 

Then  let  us  sing,  hail  to  the  Spring — 

Hail  to  the  Day  we  can  strike  to  be  free! 


46 


THEY’LL  SOON  RING  OUT 

By  John  E.  Nordquist 

(Air:  Where  the  sunset  turns  the  Ocean’s  blue  to  gold) 

We  are  looking  for  that  time, 

When  the  bells  of  earth  shall  chime 
To  proclaim  a  world  of  workers  really  free. 

I  can  see  that  joyous  day 
Not  so  very  far  away 

And  the  vision  puts  a  hopeful  heart  in  me. 

I  can  see  the  wage  slave  free 
With  his  children  by  his  knee, 

And  his  darling  wife  is  bubbling  o’er  with  cheer; 
And  the  childish  faces  smile, 

Nothing  can  their  joy  defile 

For  they  Jiear  the  bells  of  freedom  ringing  clear. 

CHORUS 

Oh  I  hear  those  free  bells  ringing 
And  the  toilers  are  all  singing, 

For  the  mis’ries  of  the  past  have  flown  away; 

And  a  worker’s  world  I  see. 

Where  no  misery  can  be; 

How  I  long  to  hear  those  bells  on  Freedom’s  day. 

If  you  wish  to  speed  those  times, 

If  you  long  to  hear  those  chimes. 

Do  your  part  in  organizing  all  the  slaves. 

If  we’re  going  to  see  that  day 
You  must  help  to  clear  the  way; 


47 


We  must  end  the  reign  of  cap’talistic  knaves. 

We  must  capture  industry, 

All  the  ships  upon  the  sea— 

Ev’ry  fact’ry,  mine  and  mill,  we’re  going  to  take. 
When  the  boss  gets  overalls, 

Then  the  cause  of  mis’ry  falls 

And  those  sleeping  bells  of  freedom  shall  awake. 

ONWARD,  “ONE  BIG  UNION!” 

By  Ralph  Cheney 

(To  be  sung  to  the  tune  of  “Onward,  Christian  Soldiers”) 

Onward,  One  Big  Union, 

Joy  and  justice  led. 

With  the  Free  Society 
Shining  out  ahead! 

Freedom,  our  one  master, 

Leads  against  the  foe. 

Forward  unto  battle 
We,  the  workers  go. 

Onward,  One  Big  Union, 

Joy  and  justice  led,  ' 

With  the  Free  Society 
Shining  out  ahead! 

War  and  wrong  shall  perisF 
Poverty  shall  cease. 

Hatred,  wrath,  and  slavery 
Yield  to  joy  and  peace. 

(REFRAIN) 

Gates  of  jails  chn  never 
Gainst  our  will  prevail. 

We’ve  the  world’s  one  power; 

And  we  cannot  fail. 

48 


COUNT  YOUR  WORKERS — COUNT  THEM! 

(Air:  Count  Your  Blessings) 

An  employment  shark  one  day  I  went  to  see 
And  he  said,  “Come  in  and  buy  a  job  from  me;” 
“Just  a  couple  of  dollars  for  an  office  fee, 

But  the  job  is  steady — and  the  fare  is  free.” 

CHORUS 

Count  your  pennies — count  them  one  by  one 
Then  you’ll  plainly  see  how  “easy  you  are  done.” 
Count  your  pennies  take  them  in  your  hand, 

Sneak  into  a  “Japs”  and  get  a  coffee  and — 

II 

I  shipped  out — and  worked — and  slept  in  lousey  bunks, 
And  the  grub! — It  stunk  as  bad  as  nineteen  skunks. 
When  I  worked  a  week  the  boss  he  said  one  day, 
“You’re  too  tired,  you’re  fired,  go  and  get  your  pay.” 

III 

When  I  went  to  get  my  pay.  Oh,  Holy  Gee! 

Road  and  School  and  Poll  tax — and  Hospital  fee, 

Then  I  nearly  fainted  and  I  lost  my  sense.  .. . 

When  the  clerk  he  said,  “You  owe  me  fifty  cents.” 

IV 

When  I  got  back  to  town  with  blisters  on  my  feet. 
There  I  saw  a  fellow  speaking  on  the  street 
And  he  said,  it  is  the  workers  own  mistake — 

If  they’d  stick  together  they’d  get  all  they  make! 


49 


V 


And  he  says,  Who’ll  come  and  join  our  union  grand, 
Who  will  be  the  first— to  join  our  “fighting”  band. 
Write  me  out  a  card  says  I,  right  here  by  geel 
The  Industrial  Workers  is  the  “dope”  for  me! 

CHORUS 

Count  your  workers,  count  them  one  by  one 
Stand  we’ll  show  the  bosses  how  it’s  really  done — 
Stand  together.  Workers — Hand  in  Hand! 

Then — ^you’ll  never  have  to  live  on  coffee  and — 


FIFTY  THOUSAND  LUMBERJACKS 

(Tune:  “Portland  County  Jail”) 

Fifty  thousand  lumberjacks,  fifty  thousand  packs. 

Fifty  thousand  dirty  rolls  of  blankets  on  their  backs. 

Fifty  thousand  minds  made  up  to  strike  and  strike  like 
men; 

For  fifty  ears  they’ve  “packed”  a  bed,  but  never  will 
again. 

.  CHORUS: 

“Such  a  lot  of  devils,”  that’s  what  the  papers  say — 

“They’ve  gone  on  strike  for  shorter  hours  and  some  in¬ 
crease  in  pay. 

They  left  the  camps,  the  lazy  tramps,  they  all  walked  out 
as  one ; 

They  say  they’ll  win  the  strike  or  put  the  bosses  on  the 
bum.” 


50 


Fifty-thousand  wooden  bunks  full  of  things  that  crawl; 
Fifty  thousand  restless  men  have  left  them  once  for  all. 
One  by  one  they  dared  not  say,  “Fat,  the  hours  are  long.” 
If  they  did  they’d  hike — but  now  the’re  fifty  thousand 
strong.  • 


Fatty  Rich,  we  know  you’re  game,  know  your  pride  is 
pricked. 

Say — but  why  not  be  a  man,  and  own  when  you  are 
licked? 

They  ve  joined  the  One  Big  Union — Gee.  For  goodness 
sake,  “get  wise”! 

The  more  you  try  to  buck  them  now  the  more  they  or¬ 
ganize. 


Take  a  tip  and  start  right  in — plan  some  cozy  rooms, 
Six  or  eight  spring  beds  in  each,  with  towels,  sheets  and 
brooms; 

Shower  baths  for  men  who  work  keeps  them  well  and  fit. 
A  laundry,  too,  and  drying  room,  would  help  a  little  bit. 

Get  some  dishes,  white  and  clean;  good  pure  food  to  eat. 
See  that  cook  has  help  enough  to  keep  the  table  neat. 
Tap  the  bell  for  eight  hours  work;  treat  the  boys  like  men. 
And  fifty  thousand  lumberjacks  may  come  to  work  again. 

Men  who  work  should  be  well  paid.  “A  man’s  a  man  for 
a’  that.” 

Many  a  man  has  a  home  to  keep  same  as  yourself,  Old 
Fat. 

Mothers,  sisters,  sweethearts,  wives,  children,  too,  galore. 
Stand  behind  the  men  to  win  this  bread  and  butter  war. 

Why  should  any  worker  be  without  the  necessities  of 
life  when  ten  men  can  produce  enough  for  a  hundred? 

51 


TIE  ’EM  UP! 

Words  and  music  by  G.  G.  Allen 

We  have  no  fight  with  brothers  of  the*"  old  A.  F.  of  L. 

But  we  ask  you  use  your  reason  with  the  facts  we 
have  to  tell. 

Your  craft  is  but  protection  for  a  form  of  property, 

The  skill  that  you  are  losing,  don’t  you  see. 

Improvements  on  machinery  take  your  tool  and  skill 
.  away, 

And  you’ll  be  among  the  common  slaves  upon  some 
fateful  day. 

Now  the  things  of  which  we’re  talking  we  are  mighty 
sure  about — 

So  whats  the  use  to  strike  the  way  you  can’t  win  out? 

CHORUS 

Tie  ’em  up!  tie  ’em  up;  that’s  the  way  to  win 

Don’t  notify  the  bosses  till  hostilities  begin. 

Don’t  furnish  chance  for  gunmen,  scabs  and  all  their 
like; 

What  you  need  is  One  Big  Union  and  the  One  Big 
Strike. 

II 

Why  do  you  make  agreements  that  divide  you  when 
you  fight 

And  let  the  bosses  bluff  you  with  the  contract’s  “sacred 
right,” 

Why  stay  at  work  when  other  crafts  are  battling  with 
the  foe. 

You  must  stick  together,  don’t  you  know. 

f 


52 


The  day  when  you  begin  to  see  the  classes  waging  war 

You  can  join  the  biggest  tie  up  that  was  ever  known 
before. 

When  the  strikes  all  o’er  the  country  are  united  into 
one 

Then  the  workers  One  Big  Union  all  the  wheels  shall 
run. 


JOE  HILL’S  LAST  WILL 

(Written  in  his  cell,  November  18,  1915,  on  the  eve  of 

his  execution.) 

My  will  is  easy  to  decide. 

For  there  is  nothing  to  divide. 

My  kin  don’t  need  to  fuss  and  moan — 

“Moss  does  not  cling  to  a  rolling  stone.” 

My  body?  Ah,  If  I  could  choose, 

I  would  to  ashes  it  reduce. 

And  let  the  merry  breezes  blow 
My  dust  to  where  some  flowers  grow. 

Perhaps  some  fading  flower  then 
Would  come  to  life  and  bloom  again. 

This  is  my  last  and  final  will. 

Goodduck  to  all  of  you, 

JOE  HILL. 


Why  does  a  short  work  day  and  a  long  pay  always  go 
together? 


53 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  A  HOBO’S  LIFE 

(Air:  The  Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me.) 

I  took  a  job  on  an  extra  gang, 

Way  up  in  the  mountain, 

I  paid  my  fee  and  the  shark  shipped  me 
And  the  ties  I  soon  was  counting. 


The  boss  he  put  me  driving  spikes 

And  the  sweat  was  enough  to  blind  me, 
He  didn’t  seem  to  like  my  pace. 

So  I  left  the  job  behind  me. 

II 

I  grabbed  a  hold  of  an  old  freight  train 
An  around  the  country  traveled, 

The  mysteries  of  a  hobo’s  life 
To  me  was  soon  unraveled. 


I  traveled  east  and  I  traveled  west 

And  the  “shacks”  could  never  find  me. 
Next  morning  I  was  miles  away 
From  the  job  I  left  behind  me. 

Ill 

I  ran  across  a  bunch  of  “stiffs” 

Who  were  known  as  Industrial  Workers, 
They  taught  me  how  to  be  a  man — 

And  how  to  fight  the  shirkers. 


I  kicked  right  in  and  joined  the  bunch 
And  now  in  the  ranks  you’ll  find  me. 
Hurrah  for  the  cause — To  hell  with  the  bossl 
And  the  job  I  left  behind  me. 

54 


WORKERS’  MEMORIAL  SONG 

Air:  Russian  IIosopoHHBiii  Mapm  Funeral  March. 

Dying  as  soldiers  fighting  for  Labor,  so  did  you  fall; 

An  off’ring  of  your  love  for  those  who  share  the  strife; 
Gladly  you  gave  us  talent  and  treasure ;  yielding  your  all. 
The  honor  of  the  world,  your  freedom  and  your  life. 
Deeply  you  suffered  nor  shrunk  from  the  grave — 

Judges  and  hangmen,  the  fate  of  the  fray; 

Starved  in  dark  dungeons,  beaten  and  tortured — cheer¬ 
ful  and  brave — 

Defying  chains  and  jails,  you  marched  upon  your  way. 
Mad  with  their  blood-lust,  rich  from  our  labor,  exploiters 
dwell 

In  luxury  and  splendor;  scornful  of  our  power 
Sweeping  to  triumph  trusting  no  promise — Heaven  or 
Hell; 

This  song  of  sorrow  sounds  to  them  their  fatal  hour. 

Rise  now  we  workers  rebellious  and  bold; 

T3^ants  no  longer  shall  rule  from  above; 

We  are  the  builders — no  one  shall  suffer  hunger  and 
cold — 

We  bring  a  world  of  beauty,  liberty  and  love. 

Farewell  true  comrades,  death  now  enfolds  you — rest  in 
the  tomb; 

As  sleeping  there  in  peace  you  know  no  more  of  pain. 
Farewell,  true  comrades,  we  will  remember  you  and  your 
doom. 

And  Labor  soon  will  prove  that  none  have  died  in  vain 
Farewell  true  comrades,  we  rise  to  the  fight; 
O’er-sweeping  all  ’neath  the  banner  ye  bore. 

Slavery  und  sorrow  vanish  before  us.  Toilers  Unite! 

To  break  your  bonds  and  rule  the  world  for  evermore. 
(Repeat  the  last  four  lines  of  the  last  stanza.) 


55 


FAREWELL,  FRANK! 

(Air:  “Barcarolle”  from  the  “Tales  of  Hoffman”) 
By  Gerard  J.  Lively 

You’ve  fought  your  fight,  a  long  good  night 
Is  all  that  we  can  say. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on,  your  work  is  done 
Brave  fighter  for  the  Day. 

Kind  Mother  Earth  who  gave  you  birth 
Receives  you  to  her  breast. 

For  us  the  Fight,  for  you  the  night. 

The  night  of  well  earned  rest. 

No  more  you’ll  feel  the  cling  of  steel, 
You’ve  burst  the  prison  bars. 

You  gave  your  life  in  this  our  strife, 

Brave  conqueror  of  stars. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on,  your  work  is  done 
Sleep  on,  sleep  on,  sleep  on. 


THE  COMMONWEALTH  OF  TOIL 

(Air:  Nellie  Grey) 

By  Ralph  Chaplin 

In  the  gloom  of  mighty  cities, 

Mid  the  roar  of  whirling  wheels, 

We  are  toiling  on  like  chattel  slaves  of  old, 

And  our  masters  hope  to  keep  us 
Ever  thus  beneath  their  heels. 

And  to  coin  our  very  life  blood  into  gold. 

CHORUS 

But  we  have  a  glowing  dream 

Of  how  fair  the  world  will  seem 
When  each  man  can  live  his  life  secure  and  free. 

When  the  earth  is  owned  by  Labor 
And  there’s  joy  and  peace  for  all 
In  the  Commonwealth  of  T  ’1  that  is  to  be. 

II 

They  would  keep  up  cowed  and  beaten 
Cringing  meekly  at  their  feet. 

They  would  stand  between  each  worker  and  his  bread 
Shall  we  yield  our  lives  up  to  them 
For  the  bitter  crust  we  eat? 

Shall  we  only  hope  for  heaven  when  we’re  dead? 

III 

They  have  laid  our  lives  out  for  us 
To  the  utter  end  of  time. 

Shall  we  stagger  on  beneath  their  heavy  load? 

Shall  we  let  them  live  forever 
In  their  gilded  halls  of  crime 

With  our  children  doomed  to  toil  beneath  their  goad? 

57 


IV 


When  our  cause  is  all  triumphant 
And  we  claim  our  Mother  Earth, 

And  the  nightmare  of  the  present  fades  away 
We  shall  live  with  Love  and  Laughter, 

We,  who  now  are  little  worth, 

And  we’ll  not  regret  the  price  we  have  to  pay. 


A  WORKER’S  PLEA 

(Air:  Tuck  Me  to  Sleep) 

By  T-B-S. 

Old  Kentucky  cradled  me — ^when  I  was  young. 

Then  Ohio  hired  me — I  sure  got  stung. 

Night  and  day  I’ve  labored  since — 

Shucking  corn  and  filling  bins 

And  now,  they  say,  my  long,  long  rest  begins. 

CHORUS 

’Tuck  me  to  sleep  in  my  old  ’tucky  home. 

Cover  me  with  roses,  gravel,  anything  but  stone, 
Then  let  the  dew  drop  a  tear  on  my  grave 
Like  a  token  never  spoken  to  a  broken-hearted  slave — 
I  ain’t  had  a  bit  of  rest — masters  thought  it  wasn’t 
best; 

— Thought  that  I  could  rest  the  best — after  I  “go 
west” 

’Tuck  me  to  bed  in  my  old  Kentucky  home. 

Let  me  lay  there — stay  there,  cover  me  up  with  loam. 


58 


II 

Old  Kentucky  cradled  me — ’tis  even  true — 

Since  I  came  to  lOWAY,  she  worked  me  too, 
Every  state  in  all  this  land 
Used  me  for  a  hired  hand, 

But  why  I’m  broke — I  fail  to  understand. 

III 

Migratory  working  man,  I’m  on  my  way — 

I  am  done  with  sun  and  sand  and  new-mown  hay 
I  have  worked  from  sun  to  sun, 

Nothing  I  have  ever  won 

And  now,  thank  God,  my  harvesting  is  done. 

ORGANIZE! 

(Tune:  “The  Green  Fields  of  Dunmoor”) 

By  James  J.  Ferriter 

Come  all  you  exploited  workingmen 
And  fight  for  Freedom’s  cause. 

For  you  are  bound,  both  hand  and  foot. 

By  capitalistic  laws; 

Your  voices  you  can  raise  no  more, 

Your  lips  you  now  must  seal. 

For  if  you  rise  to  speak  a  word 
A  gun-man’s  at  your  heel. 

Come  on,  unite,  my  hearty  boys. 

And  fight  the  common  foe; 

The  rustling  card  with  all  its  faults 
This  time  must  surely  go. 

The  “seven  days”  and  “safety  first”, 

Alas,  they  are  no  more. 

So  now’s  your  time  to  fall  in  line 
At  Freedom’s  onward  roll. 

59 


Our  master  is  a  “patriot”  true, 

Red  wealth  he  has  galore, 

And  all  good,  things  that  Labor  brings. 

He’s  locked  up  in  his  store; 

But  if,  like  men,  you’ll  organize. 

His  reign  will  be  no  more. 

And  he  will  go  where  he  belongs 
A  shoveling  copper  ore. 

Remember,  then,  the  six-hour  day 
Must  be  our  first  demand; 

For  miners  from  our  ranks  each  day 
From  death  receive  a  call; 

The  miner’s  “con”  you  soon  will  see 
Will  lose  its  deadly  pall. 

And  we’ll  make  this  camp  a  grand  old  spot 

For  the  workers,  one  and  all.  j 

there  is  power  in  a  union 

By  Joe  Hill 

(Tune:  “There  Is  Power  in  the  Blood”) 

Would  you  have  freedom  from  wage  slavery, 

Then  join  in  the  grand  Industrial  band; 

Would  you  from  mis’ry  and  hunger  be  free. 

Then  come!  Do  your  share,  like  a  man. 

CHORUS: 

There  is  pow’r,  there  is  pow’r  j 

In  a  band  of  workingmen,  j 

When  they  stand  hand  in  hand,  | 

That’s  a  pow’r,  that’s  a  pow’r 

That  must  rule  in  every  land —  j 

One  Industrial  Union  Grand.  i 

60 


I 


Would  you  have  mansions  of  gold  in  the  sky, 

And  live  in  a  shack,  way  in  the  back? 

Would  you  have  wings  up  in  heaven  to  fly. 

And  starve  here  with  rags  on  your  back? 

If  you’ve  had  “nuff”  of  “the  blood  of  the  lamb” 
Then  join  in  the  grand  Industrial  band; 

If,  for  a  change,  you  would  have  eggs  and  ham. 
Then  come,  do  your  share,  like  a  man. 

If  you  like  sluggers  to  beat  off  your  head, 

Then  don’t  organize,  all  unions  despise. 

If  you  want  nothing  before  you  are  dead. 

Shake  hands  with  your  boss  and  look  wise. 

Come,  all  ye  workers,  from  every  land. 

Come,  join  in  the  grand  Industrial  band. 

Then  we  our  share  of  this  earth  shall  demand. 
Come  on!  Do  your  share,  like  a  man. 


HARVEST  LAND 

(Air:  Beulah  Land) 

By  T-D  and  H. 

The  harvest  drive  is  on  again, 

John  Farmer  needs  a  lot  of  men; 

To  work  beneath  the  Kaxisas  heat 
And  shock  and  stack  and  thresh  his  wheat. 


61 


CHORUS 


Oh  Farmer  John — Poor  Farmer  John, 

Our  faith  in  you  is  over-drawn. 

— Old  Fossil  of  the  Feudal  Age, 

Your  only  creed  is  Going  Wage — 

“Bull  Durum”  will  not  buy  our  Brawn — 
You’re  out  of  luck — poor  farmer,  John. 

You  advertise,  in  Omaha, 

“Come,  leave  the  Valley  of  the  Kaw.” 
Nebraska  Calls,  “Don’t  be  mis-led.” 

“We’ll  furnish  you  a  feather  bed!” 

Then  South  Dakota  “lets  a  roar,” 

“We  need  ten  thousand  men — or  more;” 
“Our  grain  is  turning — prices  drop! 

For  God’s  Sake  save  our  bumper  crop.” 

In  North  Dakota — (I’ll  be  darn) 

The  “wise  guy”  sleeps  in  “hoosiers”  barn 
— Then  hoosier  breaks  into  his  snore 
And  yells,  “It’s  quarter  after  four.” 

CHORUS 

Oh  Harvest  Land — Sweet  Burning  Sand! 
— As  on  the  sun-kissed  field  I  stand 
I  look  away  across  the  plain 
And  wonder  if  it’s  going  to  rain — 

I  vow,  by  all  the  Brands  of  Cain, 

That  Iwill  not  be  here  again. 


62 


HOLD  THE  FORT 


(English  Transport  Worker’s  Strike  Song) 

We  meet  today  in  Freedom’s  cause, 

And  raise  our  voices  high; 

We’ll  join  our  hands  in  union  strong, 

To  battle  or  to  die. 

CHORUS; 

Hold  the  fort  for  we  are  coming — 

Union  men,  be  strong. 

Side  by  side  we  battle  onward. 

Victory  will  come. 

Look,  my  Comrades,  see  the  union 
Banners  waving  high. 

Reinforcements  now  appearing. 

Victory  is  nigh. 

See  our  numbers  still  increasing; 

Hear  the  bugle  blow. 

By  our  union  we  shall  triumph 
Over  every  foe. 

Fierce  and  long  the  battle  rages. 

But  we  will  not  fear. 

Help  will  come  whene’er  it’s  needed, 

Cheer,  my  Comrades,  cheer. 


63 


WORKINGMEN,  UNITE! 

By  E.  S.  Nelson 

(Tune:  “Red  Wing”) 

Conditions  they  are  bad, 

And  some  of  you  are  sad; 

You  cannot  see  your  enemy, 

The  class  that  lives  in  luxury, — 

You  workingmen  are  poor, — 

Will  be  forevermore,  — 

As  long  as  you  permit  the  few 
To  guide  your  destiny. 

CHORUS: 

Shall  we  still  be  slaves  and  work  for  wages 
It  is  outrageous — has  been  for  ages; 

This  earth  by  right  belongs  to  toilers, 
And  not  to  spoilers  of  liberty. 

The  master  class  is  small. 

But  they  have  lots  of  “gall.” 

When  we  unite  to  gain  our  right. 

If  they  resist  we’ll  use  our  might; 
There  is  no  middle  ground 
This  fight  must  be  one  round 
To  victory,  for  liberty. 

Our  class  is  maching  on! 

Workingmen,  unite! 

We  must  put  up  a  fight, 

To  make  us  free  from  slavery 
And  capitalistic  tyranny; 

This  fight  is  not  in  vain, 

We’ve  got  a  world  to  gain. 

Will  you  be  a  fool,  a  capitalist  tool, 
And  serve  your  enemy? 

64 


THE  WORKERS’  FLAG 


I  — (By  Thomas  Farr,  Humboldt  county  jail, 
Eureica,  California). 

I  Tune  (When  the  Eoll  is  Called  Up  Yonder) 

When  the  time  comes  for  the  workers. 

To  rise  up  and  claim  their  own,  ? 
When  they  resurrect  a  new  world  from  the 
old,  ^  ^ 

When  the  toilers  of  the  world  unite — 
Demand  that  they  be  free, 

Then  we’ll  raise  our  scarlet  standard  to  the 
skies. 

Chorus 

When  the  grand,  red  flag  is  flying, 

The  master  class  defying; 

With  our  faith  in  it  undying 

When  we  raise  the  scarlet  standard  over  all. 

You  have  labored  for  the  masters. 

From  the  dawn  till  set  of  sun. 

And  you’ve  toiled  and  slaved  for  naught 
from  year  to  year. 

To  the  master  goes  the  profits; 

'  To  the  slave  a  beggar’s  share; 

Will  you  stand  defrauded  in  this  craven 
fear? 


Chorus 


SONGS 

OF  THE 

INDUSTRIAL  WORKERS  OF  THE  WORLD 


There  have  been  repeated  requests  for  the  ’  W.  W. 
SONGS  WITH  MUSIC  in  a  more  popular  form.  The 
following  are  the  songs  now  ready,  or  on  the  press.  This 
list  will  be  added  to  from  time  to  time. 

Each  song  is  neatly  printed  on  high  grade  paper  in 
the  fo.rm  of  a  unique  and  very  artistic  pamphlet.  The 
covers  are  of  durable  stock,  of  various  shades  of  color. 
On  each  cover  is  an  appropriate  and  stirring  drawing  re¬ 
presenting  the  spirit  of  the  song. 

We  Have  Fed  You  All  for  a  Thousand  Years — 

Words  by  an  Unknown  Proletarian. 

Music  by  Rudolph  von  Liebich. 

Funeral  Song  of  a  Russian  Revolutionist — 

Translation  by  Douglas  and  music  by  Rudolph  von 
Liebich. 

The  Advancing  Proletaire — 

Words  by  Douglas.  Music  by  Rudolph  von  Liebich. 
Don’t  Take  My  Papa  Away  from  Me — 

Words  and  music  by  Joe  Hill. 

The  Rebel  Girl — 

Words  and  Music  by  Joe  Hill. 

Workers  of  the  World,  Awaken! — 

Words  and  music  by  Joe  Hill. 

PRICE  IS  CENTS  EACH 

■  an 

INDUSTRIAL  WORKERS  OF  THE  WORLD 

loot  W.  HADISON  STREET  (HaCO,  OL,  U.  S.  A. 


